


Flowers Pt 2

by NotEvenWithAMilkshakeCat



Series: All the Stars In the Sky [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Flowers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Poetry, Slam Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:46:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotEvenWithAMilkshakeCat/pseuds/NotEvenWithAMilkshakeCat
Summary: A poem in which I attempt to reconcile grief and conventional beauty standards.
Series: All the Stars In the Sky [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858528
Kudos: 1





	Flowers Pt 2

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second of a 3 poem series, for the full scope I recommend reading Flowers and Flowers Pt 3 although you don't have to for this to make sense.

Flowers are the least romantic gesture in the world.

Because, surely, there’s nothing as sweet as a bunch of soon-to-be dead plants manufactured solely for beauty?

What could possibly say thinking of you better than a dozen half-wilted, chemically treated roses?

Flowers grown for vases, flowers grown for purpose, flowers grown just to die, cannot constitute a romantic gift. They cannot even be a nice gift.

Except every time I pass the flower display at the grocery store, I see the roses.

My least favorite flower.

And I think of her.

Of how my dad used to take me to the store once a month and buy two dozen roses.

Red for my mother,

And pink for her.

White for her,

Yellow-orange for her.

Any color for her just as long as she got roses.

And I think of how we’d take them to her,

And how she’d smile

How she’d always be so happy to get flowers.

I always understood the gesture of love.

I have yet to understand the appreciation of beauty.

But every time I pass the flower display at the grocery store,

I stop and see the roses,

And I think of her.

I see her smile.

I hear her voice.

And the beauty isn’t in the flowers, it’s in the memory.

How can anything that holds such a beautiful meaning be ugly?


End file.
